


Paper Hearts

by SonriaCat



Series: The Living Years [1]
Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, NaNoWriMo, Pre-Canon, back story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-02 23:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13328442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonriaCat/pseuds/SonriaCat
Summary: Kate and Javier go all the way back to the Academy, and on paper, they make sense.  After all, they're equally broken; and two halves can make a whole.  Right?





	1. Chapter 1

_Behind every picture hides the true story. You just have to be willing to look._  
— Richard Castle,  Heat Wave

#

He notices her the second she walks into the Academy training room.

Of course, it’s hard _not_ to notice her, and Esposito isn’t the only one who does. She’s tall and thin, her coloring golden brown with hazel eyes, tanned skin and sun-streaked hair. Gorgeous. And young. Fresh out of college, he figures. Had a chance to spend one last summer goofing off before needing to get a real job.

Probably won’t make it past the first day or two.

But she strides in with a confidence he wouldn’t expect from someone so wet behind the ears, looking neither right nor left before taking the empty seat next to him. She doesn’t ask for permission first.

That’s fine with him; it just means he won’t have a seatmate after she washes out.

Still, there’s no need to be rude, so he sticks out a hand. “Javier Esposito.”

There’s a brief moment before she responds, a second when she seems to have to blink herself back to reality. Her handshake’s firm without being crushing. Not what he’d expect from an inexperienced kid. “Kate Beckett.”

“Just comin’ out of school, Beckett?”

“Yeah,” she answers, and her tone’s clipped. She doesn’t want to answer any questions. Later, he tells himself that was what made him take that second look at her, examine her face a little more closely. That second look is when he sees it, the intensity hidden behind a carefully constructed poker face, the tendency to keep her eye contact as brief as possible.

Although she hides it quite well, he knows what to look for. He saw it too many times in Iraq. There’s something that haunts her soul, that puts far too many shadows in her eyes. She’s young. She’s probably still got a lot to learn. But she’s not naive, not inexperienced. And she knows what she’s getting into with the Academy.

That’s when he knows she won’t wash out.

#

He might’ve been the first to figure out Beckett wasn’t some green, bright-eyed kid, but by the end of the first week everyone knows it. She asks pointed questions, challenging their instructors at every opportunity. She pushes herself almost to collapse during PT, but even when she’s shaking and stumbling with exhaustion, forces herself to keep going and finish the course.

When she doesn’t qualify with her weapon the first time around, she stays and practices, over and over, late into the night. The next day, she passes the second attempt with a near-perfect score.

Nobody’s surprised, at the end of the week, to see her name at the top of the class rankings.

Nor is anyone really all that surprised when she politely declines the invitation to go out and decompress along Seventh Street. You don’t get to be that good, that young, without being driven by something deep down inside. The kind of something that can’t let you completely relax, ever, not even for a moment.

But something about the way she does it catches Esposito’s attention. There’s more to her story than just not being interested in crawling through bars. Something that actually upsets her.

That’s why he stays behind, lingering in the classroom well after they’ve been dismissed, watching her start studying ahead so she can get a jump on the next week’s topics.

She looks up after a while. “What.” It’s not a question.

“Is it the alcohol?” he asks. “Or the bars?”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m just not interested.”

“Come on, Beckett. You can’t just go home and pretend like this hasn’t been a hell of a week.”

“Maybe you can’t. I can.”

Esposito folds his arms. “You keep yourself wrapped up that tight, you’ll implode sooner or later.”

“Mind your own business.”

“Not that simple.”

“It is if I want it to be.”

“No,” he tells her. “It’s not. Because if you’re that wound up, you can’t be trusted on the beat. Nobody wants a backup who’s unstable and might blow up anytime over some small thing that they don’t even know about. You don’t have to go out and drink, but if you don’t do something to settle your system, you’ll eat yourself alive.” He leans over so she can’t avoid his eyes. “So what’s it going to be?”

“What do you care?”

It’s a valid question, and at first, he’s irritated because he can’t answer it. Then he realizes what she’s really trying to do. “Don’t change the subject. Answer me. What are you doing tonight to wind yourself down?”

She sighs. “Checking on a relative. Then sleeping.”

“Not good enough. You need to do more than that.”

Perhaps it’s because there’s no one other than the two of them in the classroom by now, but when her temper flares, she doesn’t bother to rein it in. “Back the hell _off_ , Esposito! Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I need a freakin’ babysitter!”

“I didn’t say you did!” he snaps back. “Just that you have to do something. At least eat a decent meal, for God’s sake. There’s a pretty good Italian place right around the corner. Let’s go grab some.”

“I’ll cook for my father.”

“Let your mother do it.”

That statement only makes her angrier. “I said back the hell off!”

“Fine. You can get them both some take-out, if your mother never learned how to cook or something.”

Her hand hits the table hard, the sound echoing in the empty room. “My mother _can_ _’t_ cook for us! She’s _dead!_ ”

The moment it comes out of her mouth, her anger stops cold. She’s gasping now, surprise and disgust plain in her expression. The poker face she always shows is completely gone for several long moments, and any number of expressions appear before she manages to regain it.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says. Her tone is calm, controlled. Too steady. “But I do the cooking at home. And while I appreciate your interest —”

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Your mother’s not just dead, is she? She was murdered, and that’s why you’re here. Isn’t it? How long ago did it happen?”

“That’s not really any of your concern,” she tells him.

“The hell it isn’t! Look at me!” When she does, giving him too-bland eyes to match her too-even voice, he continues. “Post-traumatic stress is real, Beckett. If you’re in the middle of that, then we have a problem.”

“I’m not.”

“Denial.”

“Prove it.”

“I don’t have to. You already did, with that outburst.” Now that he’s put the pieces together, the signs are blindingly obvious. “But it explains a lot. Why you’re jumpy all the time, and push yourself so damn hard to be perfect. Why I’ve never seen you laugh, not even on Wednesday when D’Amico spilled that water.”

“So? None of that means anything.”

“You really think that?”

“What, are you a shrink? Or is it that it takes one to know one?”

“It does,” he answers, and she’s so surprised to hear an admission that her mouth snaps closed. “But I got help. Still getting it, in fact.”

“I don’t need help,” she says, with a more normal cadence. “I just need to be left alone.”

“No.”

Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath. “Okay. Fine. This once.”

“That’s all I need,” he tells her, and it is. The chink in her armor is exposed now, and he knows how to get through it if he needs to. He’ll figure out why he cares later.


	2. Chapter 2

_It’s not about knowing. You can never really know someone.  It’s really about trust._  
— Richard Castle,  Heat Rises

#

Beckett’s voice is a shout. “Espo! Enough already! Get moving!”

He can’t see her. He can barely hear her. The rifle is all he sees right now, with its deadly trigger and setup and the muzzle that’s pointed straight at him. It’s Iraq all over again. What was he fighting for there, if he’s only going to come back and encounter one of those here?

Her voice is closer, lower. More intense. “Come on, Javi. You can’t flake now. Graduation’s in just two days.”

She’s right. It’s just that there’s that _thing_ —

“Focus!” she snaps. “You really want to have to re-apply and go all the way back through the Academy?”

That gets through; hearing one fear named breaks the effect of the other one. “No.” He takes a sharp breath, blinking the remaining panic away, and un-holsters his own weapon. “No. Let’s do this.”

“Good,” she answers. They finish the course without any further incident, but there’s still ice in his gut. What if she hadn’t been there to call him out of the flashback? Maybe he really isn’t ready for this yet. Maybe dropping out is better. Even if he can’t get back into the NYPD Academy, there are other departments out there worth trying.

With a loud exhale, Beckett drops down on a folding chair next to him. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“You know what. Everyone has moments now and then. They don’t mean you’re back to square one.”

He glances at her sideways. “You’re one to talk.”

She snorts. “What was that about denial?”

It had taken three weeks of Friday night dinners before she told him the whole story about her mother, and even then, it was just an outline. Yes, she confirmed, her mother had been murdered: a stabbing case that’d been closed awfully quickly. No, her father hadn’t handled it well. He usually made it to AA meetings, but not always, and she kept an eye on him.

In return, he’d told her some of what had happened in Iraq. It was establishing rapport and trust, he told himself; if she wouldn’t seek professional help then she needed some other kind of safety valve. Somehow, though, it had started to turn into something else. He’d discovered she has a dry, ironic sense of humor that tends toward the wicked.  She’d learned about his love for video gaming. To his surprise, she’s actually able to talk about that, although only on a light level since she doesn’t game herself.

By the time the serious training simulations started, neither of them had any hesitation about partnering up.

Letting out another deep breath now, Beckett relaxes back in the chair, letting her arms and legs dangle in a pose that reminds him just how very young she still is. When she stretches, her t-shirt rides up enough to expose a good bit of skin, and he can see that her midriff is as well tanned as her arms and legs.

Without warning, an image of Beckett in a bikini appears in his mind. He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he answers, refusing to notice her shorts. “You have a bruise on your right leg.”

“Do I?” She picks it up to examine it, muscles rippling under the skin as she twists it into a viewable position, and something about the sight makes him need to shake his head harder. She doesn’t notice. “Oh, I guess it is. That’ll hurt later, but at least it’s only a bruise.”

“Be more careful next time,” he says. “And God, Beckett, pull your shirt back down, will you? It’s blinding me.”

She gives him a long, curious look, but he closes his eyes and tries to think of anything besides the idea of her with any less clothing than her current workout gear. This is Beckett, for God’s sake. Not some random girl off the street. He needs to knock it off.

Problem is, it’s not as easy as it normally would be. He’s still a little off-center from having frozen up.

“Javi?” she asks. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Just needed to catch my breath. Let’s get moving. Got some work left to do yet.”

Which is a good thing, he decides. He needs the distraction.

#

She’s flushed slightly pink with excitement. “Yeah. Dad’s going to be here. He’s been sober for an entire week now, Espo. Longest stretch so far. Is this thing straight?”

He peruses her newly-donned uniform, reaching out to adjust the tie. “I’m glad you’re going to have someone here.”

“Won’t you?”

His mother has to work, and God only knows where his father is these days. Espo shakes his head.

“Well, I’m sure my father will love you. We can all go out for Italian afterward.”

Maybe. She’s told a few stories about bringing boyfriends home. Then again, he’s not a boyfriend, is he? He’s a colleague, and there’s nothing like that between them. The fact that he thinks she looks amazing in the uniform is immaterial. So is the fact that she appeared in his dreams again last night, still clad in only a bikini.

Beckett pulls out her poker face for the ceremony itself, though her eyes are bright and excited. At first. Then, as she watches the audience, that sparkle fades and dims, progressing through a neutral expression before becoming positively stony.

He catches her elbow afterward. “Hey. Kate. I’m sorry.”

“He promised, Javi.” There’s a sound of unshed tears in her voice. “He _promised_.”

“I know.”

She breathes heavily, trying to recover her aplomb. “It’s all right. I finished, after all. That’s the part that really matters.”

“That’s right,” he answers, recognizing the sound of someone trying to convince themselves. It can’t hurt to reinforce that. “Come on. We can still go get Italian to celebrate.”

When they get outside into the calmer, clearer air, she tries another steadying breath, but it backfires and she doubles over instead. He puts a hand on her back. “Push through. You’re stronger than this.”

“He’s drinking, damn it. I know he is.”

“Probably. But we’re going out to celebrate graduation, Kate. Not to mention, I’m hungry.”

A while passes before she can unfold to her full height. “Why don’t you go on and get yourself some dinner, then, Esposito. I don’t have any appetite.”

“Uh-uh. You’re coming to the restaurant with me, and you’re going to eat, and then maybe we’ll grab a movie or something. We _are_ going to celebrate tonight.”

“I don’t really feel like dinner and a movie.”

He pulls her around so that they’re facing each other, dropping his voice to protect both their privacy. “Then what do you feel like?”

“I just want to forget.” Her voice goes husky. “But a movie won’t be enough.”

“We’ll do something else, then. Tell me what’ll work. Anything.”

She meets his eyes, and there’s a different kind of hitch in her breath now. “Anything?”

He nods, but he’s still startled when she steps forward and brushes her lips against his. “Kate.”

“You said anything. And I saw you looking,” she whispers. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

He keeps his voice gentle. “I don’t want you hate yourself tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

It’s still a bad idea, he knows. Horrible. But at least, if it’s him, he can try to minimize any damage. He pulls her close, kissing her back, and whispers that his place is only a few minutes away.


	3. Chapter 3

_You can never tell from the door what_ _’s behind a door._  
— Richard Castle,  Heat Wave

#

From the very beginning, Esposito knows what this is. So does Beckett. Perhaps more importantly, they also both know what it isn’t. They talked about this in the Academy, but if he’d had to guess, it wasn’t a new lesson for either of them: comfort and afterglow aren’t a strong enough basis to form a secure romantic relationship.

Still, though, there are times he wonders.

He doesn’t date much; there are reasons why cops tend to make lousy boyfriends, and he’s not the kind to try and argue the point. As far as he’s aware, Beckett doesn’t date much either. Every now and then, he hears a rumor linking her with one person or another, but they never tend to last that long.

They also don’t put a stop to what started the night after graduation. Since they’re at different precincts, they don’t see each other on a daily basis. But word still gets around.

The first time he had to take someone down, she showed up at his door unannounced. He’d glanced through the peephole, groaned inwardly, and even begun to turn away. That’s when her knocking had become pounding. “I know you’re in there, Espo. Open up.”

He’d left the chain in place when he opened the door. “Okay, so you heard. But I’m fine.”

“Denial,” she shot at him.

“No,” he corrected her. “I had a rough day. But I can handle it. Thanks for stopping by.”

He pushed the door closed, but she caught it and pushed back, throwing her weight into it. The chain stretched taut, straining to the point where he became concerned it might snap, and his eyes fell to it.

So did hers. “I’m not leaving. You might as well not have to fix the lock.”

Giving in, he’d steeled himself for a night of talking when, but to his surprise, that wasn’t what she’d had in mind. After coming in to his apartment, she’d quietly closed the door and reset all the locks. He’d stood there, neither inviting nor dismissing, with his hands hanging awkwardly by his sides.

Then she’d turned around and stepped into his personal space, and he’d figured out exactly what to do with his hands.

Afterward, she hadn’t stayed. The gentle touch of her lips against his forehead said everything that needed saying. He’d fallen asleep after letting her back out, and thus was rested when he went in for the post-incident counseling.

That had become their pattern, and while he never kept score, it went both ways. Tonight it’s his turn. He’s asked around to find out where Royce’s retirement party was, unsurprised when it turns out to be at a bar. Cops are like that, of course, except for the occasional rarity such as Beckett.

But she’s there anyway, drink in hand. It’s obviously not her first.

He sidles up beside her, taking the glass. “Not your usual scene.”

“Lay off.” Her voice is low, with a brittle, waspish tone.

“No,” he answers, and she shoots him a glare before stalking off to get another drink. He follows her, signaling to the bartender that he’ll take whatever she’s having. It’s liquor, not beer, and not a weak one either.

He wonders if he’s the only one who can tell that the drunken gaiety she’s otherwise projecting is an act, one that’s intended to fool herself as well as everyone else. It’s just as well, Espo decides, that he doesn’t have duty the next day, because the party doesn’t wind down until close to dawn. He doesn’t ask whether she’s scheduled for duty. It doesn’t matter; she won’t be making it if she is.

The party-girl demeanor crumbles in seconds when she comes out of the bar and sees him standing in the alley outside. Her voice is an outright snarl. “I said lay off.”

“And I said no,” he counters.

She launches herself at him, nails extended, but the alcohol in her veins has left her clumsy and uncoordinated. It’s no work at all to pin her arms against her sides and spin her around so her back’s against a convenient wall.

“You’re drunk,” he tells her.

“So what if I am?”

“It’s time to go home.”

“No shit! Where do you think I’m headed?”

“Not alone,” he continues. “You don’t get to go home just so you can drink some more.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“Don’t lie to me. It’s exactly what you’re planning to do.”

That earns him a long litany of curses, but he holds her firm until she winds down. She’s still breathing heavily. “Fine. I have to be on duty in twelve hours anyway. I’ll go home and go to bed.”

It’s an effort not to shake her. “I told you not to lie to me!”

“I’m not!”

“Bullshit!” He pushes her harder against the wall, sliding an arm across the front of her shoulders so his other hand is free to tilt her chin up. She closes her eyes to avoid meeting his, and he’s suddenly tired of this. Tired of arguing the obvious. Tired of pretending this is something more — or less — than it is. Tired of the entire situation. When she tries to speak again, he simply shuts her up with his mouth.

Beckett’s response is immediate and overwhelming, and her struggles to free herself become a fight to get closer to him. He accepts it, sliding a leg between hers and pushing her hips into the wall before coming up for air. “Your place or mine?”

It’s hers this time, though he barely gives the living area a glance. It’s just a place they have to get through on the way to the bedroom. Both of their clothes are mostly off by the time they actually get there, and they fall into the bed in a tangled, writhing knot. It’s fast, just as he knew it would be, but he doesn’t expect tears to leak from her eyes afterward.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s all right. It’s just me, Kate.”

She swipes at her face. “I’m fine.”

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have made a point of getting drunk tonight.” Flipping over onto his back, he pulls her down against him. “You’re not fine. Royce isn’t just releasing you from training. He’s leaving the force. That’s upsetting.”

“People retire all the time.”

“But not your training officer. Not after declaring you his last, best trainee.” She stiffens, and he chuckles. “What, you didn’t know? Scuttlebutt says he never talked about anyone the way he talked about you. It’s no secret that you were more than just T.O. and rookie. You were friends, and now that he’s leaving, that’s over.”

“If I want to talk to a shrink, I know where to find one.”

“I’m not a shrink.” He catches her hands, bringing them to his lips briefly. “Just a friend.”

She scoffs, but it’s belied by the fact that she stops fighting and settles down into his arms. They lie like that in the silence, not speaking, and that’s when he finds himself wondering. Are they really just friends? Or, perhaps, would it be possible to be more? After all, they’re both cops. They know the score when it comes to dating one. They’re both damaged, but sometimes two halves can make a whole.

On paper, it makes sense. But even as she sighs and drops off into the sleep he’d wanted her to have, a part of him suspects it’s not enough.


	4. Chapter 4

_John Lennon said life was what happened while you made other plans._  
— Richard Castle,  Heat Rises

#

“Well, would you look at that. You were right. Beckett’s on the detective list.”

“Pay up, buddy. I told you she was one to watch, and not just for the legs.”

Espo smiles to himself as the uniform digs into his pocket for the money. He’d have known better than to bet against her.

“And man, Lieutenant Gates over at 1PP is gonna be pissed when she finds out her record just got beat.”

“Oh?” asked the second uniform, the one who’s just made himself $20 poorer. “Which one?”

“Youngest woman to make detective.” The first uniform taps a notation on the newly-posted list. “Gates had that record for nearly six years, and now she just got beat by six months. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall when she reads this list.”

“What I wouldn’t give to see Gates and Beckett in a room together after that,” comes the reply. “Can you imagine what that would be like? Whoo-ee, cat _fight!_ ” He makes a meowing sound.

“Hey, and they’re both lookers, too. If they started tearing each other’s clothes off —”

He’s on his feet before he completely realizes it. “Knock it off.”

“What’s it to you, Esposito?”

“This isn’t the locker room,” he snaps back, “and those are cops you’re talking about. Detectives. They deserve some respect.”

“Oh, I can respect ’em, all right, especially the way they’re both all neat and buttoned-up in their uniforms. Kind of makes you wonder what’s under —”

He’s perfectly aware of stepping out from around his desk. “I said knock it off.”

“What’s the big deal, man? It’s just talk. You can’t blame a guy for looking.”

“Looking’s fine. You do that all you want. But you keep your big mouth to yourself when it comes to folks like Beckett.” Tapping the detective list himself, he continues. “They’re one of ours. Act like it.”

“Wait a minute,” says the older one. “Didn’t you go through the Academy with her? What, you pick up a crush or something?”

“No.” The word’s almost a snarl. “Just thinking with the big brain instead of the little one. Which is what we all ought to be doing. So knock it off before I start taking you seriously enough to do something about it.”

He’s been with the Fifty-Fourth long enough that other officers know not to take a statement like that likely, and they disperse. Disgusted, Espo sits back down and tries to focus on the fives he’d been finishing up. But it won’t work. His thoughts are too scattered.

It’s been a while since he saw Beckett. He hadn’t even known she’d started trying for detective yet. He’d always known she would, given her reasons for joining the force. He’s just a little surprised at the timing.

Not to mention, he finally admits, his reaction. Would he have defended another female detective that way?

Shaking his head, he tries once more to focus on the paperwork in front of him. When it’s done, though, he looks at his phone, remembering that her number is still programmed into it. A congratulatory text, at least, wouldn’t be out of order. In fact, it’d almost be obligatory, wouldn’t it?

#

They meet at their Italian place, and the first thing he notices is that she looks happier, even younger, brimming over with the news. “I hadn’t really expected to make it on the first try, Javi. I definitely hadn’t thought I’d get to stay at the Twelfth. They tell me Montgomery specifically requested me for his squad.”

He’s impressed. “Montgomery’s good people. You did really well, Kate.”

She flushes slightly at the praise and concentrates on her food for a second, twirling spaghetti around a fork. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You going to try for detective?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it,” he admits. “Of course, I’m already on the Homicide squad at the Fifty-Fourth.”

“You should try,” she tells him. “They’re not kidding when they say the exam’s tough, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. Then, if you get pulled over to the Twelfth or I transfer to the Fifty-Fourth, we could work together again.”

“Oh, come on, Beckett. You know better than that.” But it’s a pleasant thought. At the same time, it’s also a bit dangerous, so he decides to change the subject. “How’s your Dad?”

Now her smile’s nothing short of brilliant. “Got his bronze chip two weeks ago.”

“Really? How long is that?”

“A year. A whole _year_ , Javi!” Her voice is almost girlish as it rises. “He’s taking a week up at his old fishing cabin to celebrate.”

“That’s good,” he answers.

She considers him for a second. “You know, you’re not fooling me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t give me that. You haven’t said thing one about yourself this evening, and that’s not the Javier Esposito I know. So talk. What’s going on?”

He shrugs. “Tonight, it’s mostly ’cause we’re supposed to be celebrating you. There’s not much to tell. Picked up a couple new games, been team lead on a couple of squad activities. I’ve actually been thinking about the sergeant’s exam. Not detective.”

She shakes her head, frowning slightly. “No. You’ve got too good of a brain not to go for detective.”

“Some people say Jarheads don’t have brains at all.”

“Some people are wrong. Now quit your squirming and talk to me. It’s been too long since we really caught up.”

Giving in, he pulls out a few of the more amusing anecdotes from recent cases he’s worked with the Fifty-Fourth’s Homicide squad. He doesn’t mention this morning’s exchange with the younger uniforms. There’s no way he’s going to tell her anything about that. Not what was said, not his reaction, and especially not the direction his thoughts had gone afterward.

Hell, he’s not even sure he wants to admit that last one to himself.

But Kate Beckett didn’t just become the youngest female in the NYPD because she’s oblivious or stupid. After dinner, as they’re out on the sidewalk, she touches his hand. “You still haven’t told me what’s bothering you tonight.”

“It’s nothing. Just talk.”

“Now I know something’s wrong because you know better than that. Words can hurt, Javi.”

“That’s true enough,” he answers. “But not all words deserve our attention.” Giving in to an impulse, he catches her hand and pulls it up, brushing his lips lightly across her knuckles. “It’s just a funk, Kate. Nothing serious. I’ll snap out of it in a while, and it’s not worth ruining your night.”

“It hasn’t. I’m glad we got a chance to catch up.” She laughs a little. “Felt like old times there, just a bit. Didn’t it?”

“Yeah, it did.” That’s hardly a surprise, though, given how well they’d known each other at the Academy and afterward. “I’ve missed it.”

She looks away for a moment and takes a breath before turning back toward him and stepping closer, into his personal space. “I have too.”

The kiss itself is hardly surprising; she’d always been just as willing to initiate things as he was. But this one’s different from before. It’s slower, gentler, carrying more emotion. Including, he thinks, more than a bit of sadness, because now it’s clear they’ll never be anything more than friends. They’ve grown in different directions.

Still, when she tugs him in the direction of her apartment, he lets her. It’s a comfort, and that’s something friends can do.


	5. Chapter 5

_Remember what one of our philosophers once said: “In the human heart there is a perpetual generation of passions, such that the ruin of one is almost always the foundation of another.”  
— Richard Castle,  Frozen Heat_

#

“All right, Esposito. It’s done. You’ll report to Captain Montgomery at the Twelfth next week.” Captain McDermott pauses. “And when you do, tell him he owes me one for stealing one of my best detectives.”

He shakes his head. The transfer had been his idea; he couldn’t stay here. Not after everything that had gone down. “He didn’t initiate the move, sir.”

“No, you did. I know that. But you didn’t request a specific post. Montgomery asked for you. Buck up, Espo. He’s good people, and you’ll do well over there. Didn’t you say you went through the Academy with his squad leader? Right there, that’s a connection.”

He wonders what McDermott would think if he told him the exact nature of said connection.

“Esposito? Something else?”

“No, sir. Thank you, sir. I should get moving.”

“That you should.” His old captain sticks out a hand, and they shake. “Good luck, son. It’s been a pleasure.”

It doesn’t take long to finish cleaning out his desk; the personal items barely fill up half a banker’s box. That’s to be expected; Esposito has always believed in keeping work and life separate, and both his home and his desk show it. Right now, though, as he stares back at the plaques, bric-a-brac and various bits of kitsch, the thought is more than a little bit defensive in nature.

Shaking his head, he closes the box and heads out. He has a week of leave before reporting to Captain Montgomery, and he means to use it to work his way through BioShock. Everything he’s heard sounds amazing, and when it had appeared in the windows of his favorite game shop, the decision had been easy. He’s planning to stop in on his way home.

_It won_ _’t be on the way home anymore_ , his brain reminds him. He shakes off that thought, thinking that it might be a good idea to pick up a double order of Chinese as well. No doubt it’s going to be an all-nighter.

“Hey, Esposito.”

She’s standing at the bottom of the steps and he stops, startled. “This isn’t your house.”

“No,” says Beckett. “But not yours either, not anymore. Montgomery told me this afternoon.” She comes closer, facing him. “Why’d I hear it from him and not you?”

“I figured you’d already found out.”

“Well, I didn’t. Not until today. All I knew is that we had a new detective coming on board for DiNovo’s old spot.”

“Huh,” he says, wondering just how well he’ll really do at the Twelfth if Montgomery isn’t the kind to ask his squad leader’s opinion about potential new detectives. Then again, he’ll have more contact with Beckett than Montgomery anyway.

She’s peering at the box. “What’s this? I thought you weren’t reporting until next week.”

“Taking some leave in between.”

“Oh. New game come out?”

“Yeah.” Stilted, he decides. That’s the best way to describe this conversation, and if it makes his voice a bit gruff, it’s because he can’t stand the idea of that word being in the same sentence as Kate Beckett. “Somethin’ you need from me? I won’t call you Boss, not yet, but I figure that’ll be okay after I report.”

“It’ll be fine. And no, I just…” she trails off. “I hadn’t expected to hear your name. I thought you were happy here, at the Fifty-Fourth.”

“I was. Just needed a change.”

“Does this have anything to do with Ike Thornton going down?”

He shifts his box from one hip to another. “He was my _partner_ , Beckett. Of course it does.”

“You never talked to me about it.”

“You never asked.”

She sighs, giving up her poker face in favor of something more expressive. “I meant to, Javi. Really. It was just…I finally got hold of some new information about my mother’s case, and it was big. I wound up caught up in that.” She makes a face before staring down at her hands, and to his surprise he sees they’re shaking. “So caught up, actually, that I had to be pulled out. By the time that happened, Thornton was old news, and I had no idea what I’d say if I called you.”

He frowns. “You still seeing a counselor?”

“Yeah, and we’re back up to every other week. But we’ll probably go back to once a month before much longer.”

“Then it’s all right.” He’s not really mad at her anyway; her mother’s death had impacted her far worse than Ike’s death had impacted him. “I get it, and besides, you seem like you know what to say now.”

“I suppose. Is that all you’re bringing with you?”

“Most everything’s in the files, either at the precinct or 1PP. We can request ’em as needs be.”

“Espo.” Strain creeps into her tone of voice. “I’m trying to be a friend here, for old time’s sake. And possibly, to…to ask you if you want to go get Italian. One more time, before things get too weird.”

He looks her over, considering the statement. It’s been well over a year before either of them has showed up at the other’s door. They’ve never really broken up, because they’ve never truly been a couple. But things had seemed to kind of trail off; in fact, the couple of times they’d run into each other on the job, it had stayed strictly professional.

That didn’t mean he didn’t think about other things when it had happened, though; and he’d seen the same thoughts echoed in her eyes at the time.

Still. “What purpose would it serve?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Closure, I guess. Saying good-bye for good, so that we can say hello honestly.” She shrugs. “Did we ever need a reason?”

“I guess not.” He jerks his head, pointing. “C’mon. I want to drop this at my place before we go out. Plus I need to stop and pick up a game on the way.”

Of course, they don’t make it to the restaurant. She wanders around the game store while he finishes his errand there, and then makes polite small talk on the sidewalk and in the elevator. In answer to one of her questions, he starts to tell her what he thinks about the latest console news, but it’s clear that she’s lost after two sentences. He changes the subject to something more generic.

Then, after he puts the box down in his living room and turns to lock the door, he doesn’t talk much at all. Neither does she.

They’re saying plenty, though. The words they’ll never exchange are right there in every touch, every kiss, every startled gasp. He takes his time, knowing he’ll want to remember everything. Ironically, they’ve never been together like this before. It’s quieter, more passionate, and both of them are working to extend it as long as possible. But it can’t last forever, and eventually they both give in to the inevitable.

Afterward, she wraps herself around him. “I’m glad you’re coming to the Twelfth.”

“Me too,” he answers, and he means it. Esposito realizes he’s not going to be jealous, or uncertain, once he’s under her supervision. It’s not that he and Kate Beckett don’t love each other. He knows better. But it’s not the right kind of love, the kind she deserves, and in that moment, he decides he’ll do everything he can to make sure that’s what she finds.


	6. Epilogue

“It was her mother. Not her father.”

It’s late, and it was a long day, which is why Esposito is startled to look up and see Richard Castle standing in front of his desk. The younger man seems nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot while his eyes occasionally dart to one side or another.

He’s hiding something.

This might be good, or it might not. “What are you doing here? Beckett went home a while ago.”

“Yeah, I know. But we’ve been…” he trails off. “I stayed last night, too, Espo, and she told me. About her mother’s murder, I mean.”

Leaning back in his chair, Esposito crosses his arms. “So?”

“So there has to be more to that story. I can’t imagine that Beckett would just let it lie.”

“Case was closed a while back.”

“But how could she _stand_ that with all those unanswered questions?” It comes out in a rush. “How does she live with that? Why doesn’t it drive her absolutely out of her mind?”

There are so many ways to answer that, and his initial inclination is to simply to choose the one that would satisfy the author and send him on his way with very little actual new information. But Esposito hesitates, ostensibly taking the time to shut down his computer so that he can think and consider.

This man has driven Beckett crazy in a way he hasn’t seen since…well, since Sorenson, but even that was never like this. But he’s shallow, only looking for information and an angle. Prying and gratuitous.

Except that’s not what he sees now. Castle’s all but pacing in front of his desk, vibrating with a restless energy that would be out of place in someone who was only curious. He cares, and he probably thinks Espo won’t break the wall of silence. Yet he’s asking anyway, as if he can’t bring himself not to.

That’s worth thinking about. So is the fact that he’s never seen anyone able to read Beckett as well as this man, not even himself. Everything he’s ever guessed so far has been right on target, which is no doubt part of what drives Kate up the wall.

“She did push,” he decides to answer. “It nearly did her in. Montgomery had to threaten her badge before she would get help.”

Castle stills, silently looking away for a long moment. “Did she figure it out?”

“Some threads got pulled, some details fleshed out. She knows more than she did before. But no,” he admits. “She didn’t get to the bottom of it.”

There’s another long pause, but it’s clear that this time, Castle’s dropped gaze is evidence of thought, not evasion.

“What if I could look into it without telling her?” he asks. “Maybe I could find something. It’s still destroying her Espo, even if she’s learned to leave it alone. If I look, but can’t get anywhere, she won’t have to know. But if I do find something, if there are some answers out there…well, she needs them. She deserves them. Doesn’t she?”

He stands up, slowly. “Bro, she deserves a hell of a lot more than that. What she doesn’t deserve is someone hanging out all those details in a book for the whole world to see, just so he can make a few more sales.”

Castle’s lips thin and his gaze becomes stony, stubborn. He’s offended by the suggestion, and that’s when Esposito makes his decision.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.” He takes them down to the records room, moving past the more recent files toward the storage area for older ones. He’s able to go straight to the file in question. He knows exactly where it is.

“Remember,” he says as he hands it over. “This never happened. I was never here.”

“You have my word,” the author answers. “Thanks.”

After watching the two of them together, noticing the way they interact, seeing the sparks that fly on a regular basis, he’s pretty sure he made the right decision. It makes no sense on paper, but then again, he and Beckett technically did. That didn’t mean they actually were right for each other as anything more than friends.

Still, just in case he’s read the other man wrong, Esposito presses, making his position crystal clear. “If you tell her I did this, I’ll make you bleed.”

Castle nods. “Understood.”

“Good luck.” He leaves, taking a long breath to clear his lungs and his mind. If things go sideways and she finds out, she’ll never forgive him.

But if things do work out, if Castle’s surprisingly-good investigative skills help solve the mystery that tears Beckett apart every day, it’ll be worth it. Having that man paw through her life may not necessarily be what his friend wants, but it sometimes appears as though it’s what she’s been needing.

That, he decides, is what’s most important.


End file.
